


How Two Idiots Stumbled While Dancing the Quadrille and Broke Their Hearts

by partly_conscious



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 18th Century, Anglo-Austrian Alliance, Historical, M/M, Stately Quadrille, Tumblr APH Rarepair Exchange, WW2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 18:43:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2863127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/partly_conscious/pseuds/partly_conscious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1727 and England's just formed a new alliance with the man who plays the piano. They are somewhat drunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Two Idiots Stumbled While Dancing the Quadrille and Broke Their Hearts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cella](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Cella).



> Hhhhh so this is for the APH Secret Santa exchange on Tumblr and it is EXTREMELY RUSHED AND UN-BETA'D SO I AM REALLY SORRY HHHH  
> I hope you enjoy it anyway, ahhhhh oh my gosh //w\\\ I did my best to not include France as per your wishes, but I'm afraid he gets mentioned a few times as he was rather integral to the time period and I could only find this one time when Austria and England were allied. //D  
> Happy holidays!

Of course, if he was to be realistic, he would have to admit that he had seen Austria before that moment. The man was, at the time, something of a regional power; even if he was less of a ravenous globetrotter than the British Empire had been, surely he got around plenty. The number of nations in existence being so small, especially at that time, practically forced the ones-- not closeted into isolation, that is-- together. However much they despised each other, the pull of communication with their own kind-- the knowledge that even as they bantered about irrelevant things and got vaguely drunk, they understood each other’s uniquely crushing background sadness-- was irresistible for all but a few. So of course he had seen Austria before that day, possibly even exchanged a few words before then.

Nevertheless, the moment that sticks in England’s mind, the moment that he has subconsciously labeled as _the first time I saw Roderich_ , was at The Party. And sometimes, in his darker moments, he admits to himself that he wishes that it hadn’t been at The Party, that he had first become aware of the other’s existence before that or after that or any time but that. Of course, such thinking is no use, and England is nothing if not practical during times of war. So he tucks those thoughts away into the furthest recesses of his mind and focuses on the present, this roiling turmoil of war-that-is-called-by-a-different-name-only, a present in which Austria does not cross his path and he does not have to think about him at all.

But if he does think about the man sometimes-- and so what if he does? it’s not like it matters, it’s not like those thoughts are ever of any consequence!-- what he invariably ends up thinking of is that moment. England prefers not to keep sentimental moments of meeting in his memory-- as a rule, he does not often think of America when he was young, and France has of course been around so unspeakably long that England finds it a hopeless endeavor to even remember back that far-- but this one sticks around.

Austria is playing the piano. Of course. The room is decked out in 1750s finery, all the cloth hanging heavy and the ladies with their skirts tumbling voluptuously from their nipped waists. England does not remember the time period fondly; it was a span of years in which Europe tumbled in and out of hasty alliances, often cruelly and always without shame. He feels a flicker in his gut at the sight of Spain leaning casually against the piano, narrows his eyes suspiciously as Spain gives him a cheerful smile. The man is always cheerful, but he’s sure that he’s planning something this time around. Unwilling to hold Spain’s bright gaze for long, he lets his eyes scan over the general area.

The party is loud, and the music is not dramatic, but it carries well nonetheless over the general babble. England notes the lack of sheet music on the piano stand, letting his eyes drift to the player. Aristocratic face, elegant hairstyle, looking very detached from the rest of the crowd. And his fingers moving like magic. England’s intrigued, can sense the nationality of the man, is debating whether to approach him or not when Spain-- when did he leave the scene?-- appears with at least three middle-aged women on his arm and starts babbling away and England has to refocus his attention on making Spain look bad in front of as many people as he can and the man at the piano is temporarily forgotten.

That night, he and France argue explosively, one of many arguments that had become second nature to England. With this, their good relationship is over-- of course it’s been coming for a while, but England knows by now how to detect when a fight is just one fight in a downward spiral and when it’s the turning point for a relationship, and he knows that this is a sign to start looking for a new ally. And his thoughts go back to the man playing the piano.

* * *

His name is Roderich Edelstein, but England is not invited to call him that, and so he remains the Kingdom of Austria as the maid pours the tea and they both perch like gaudy birds at the edges of their respective seats, warily sizing each other up. It feels a little odd to be addressed as _England_ \-- his only real friend, America across the ocean, always insists so fervently on calling him _Arthur_ , and England wonders what that name would sound like in Austria’s accent-- it sounds a lot like that Germany’s-- and then chastises himself for having such a frivolous thought.

“I’m curious about your relationship with Spain,” England says politely, taking a sip of tea and watching Austria’s eyes widen in surprise.

“There is nothing between us,” the other man dismisses, waving a hand-- elegant, with long fingers, yet surely they must be very strong to play the piano so lightly? England catches himself tracing the path of the hand back down to Austria’s side. “It is an alliance, nothing more.”

“Of course,” accedes England. He had held suspicions about Austria and Spain, having done a bit of snooping in the time since the party-- they had been married at one point, though of course both governments had insisted that it had been “All politics, nothing more!” But seeing Austria brush it off so thoughtlessly in front of him was more of a proof than that; England feels relieved. It was always so much harder to convince them when they had actual emotions for their allies. “You’re assisting him in the siege on Gibraltar, I’m assuming?” he asks, knowing full well that Austria is not.

The reaction is not what he was expecting. Austria gives him a cold, impossibly aristocratic look, says, “If you expect to gain my cooperation in this matter, you will have to state it outright first, I’m afraid,” and then in the same breath, “This tea is rather nice,” having taken a sip.

* * *

It is surprisingly easy to convince Austria not to assist Spain-- a few favors done, well worth it-- and England feels fairly hopeful about this new acquaintance. He pretends that he doesn’t enjoy the look of shame on Spain’s face as he slinks off of England’s land with his pathetic army, enjoys the point that he’s gained in Europe’s constant give-and-take. Of course, he could have done it without Austria’s compliance, but really-- that was ridiculously easy, it was quite obvious that Spain had been counting on his sometimes ally to back him up. _Idiot. He was an idiot in the Americas, and he’s an idiot now-- trusting others to help him like that. He should know better._ England can admit that he understands Spain better than he’d like to-- the wish to be able to rely on somebody, the constant strain of having to always calculate by being alone, adding allies to the equation only as assets to improve your chances-- but, still, he would have thought that one as old and experienced as Spain would have learned that lesson by now.

No matter. It benefits England if Spain continues to be the careless affectionate idiot that he’s always been, so it’s no use complaining about his enemies being weak. He pivots sharply on his heel, refuses to watch Spain disappear from sight like a sentimental fool.

Working with Austria has proven, at any rate, to be beneficial to England. He’s found the man easy to work with, easy to manipulate-- the fact that he deserts Spain so easily means, perhaps, that he’s unreliable, but at least England can get something out of this new relationship before it falls apart. Besides, some of his top advisors have been pressing hard for an Anglo-Austrian alliance.

He feels strangely lonely, wonders vaguely about America across the ocean. He worries about the boy these days. Maybe he should write.

However, when he gets home and sits down at his writing desk, it’s not to America but to Austria that he addresses the letter.

* * *

It’s named the Treaty of Vienna and Austria has broken out some very fine wine and all the guests and important signatories and government officials have left. Austria is more open than England’s ever seen him, waxing eloquent about classical music, and England nods whenever Austria pauses and sips from his wine glass. The room has started to turn hazy and pleasant and England finds himself only half-listening to what Austria is saying, paying attention instead to the unfamiliar cadence of his words. He is not particularly interested in music, but he thinks he could become so-- at least, at this moment he feels like he could become so, suddenly harbors a burning desire to become a concert pianist. Although America would laugh at him, that doesn’t seem to matter either.

He mentions this fact to Austria and they both laugh, find this to be inordinately funny. Austria declares that his lessons will start now. England finds himself tugged out of his seat; suddenly, he’s very close to Austria and can feel the power of those long fingers, the hint of wine coloring both of their breaths. He’s not sure why his heart’s beating so fast all of a sudden. Austria gives him a loose smile, sits him down at the piano. England looks at the keys. They seem to be wiggling before his eyes.

Austria places his hands atop England’s and England feels static. Their combined hands move slowly, coaxing out drunken music from the old piano-- England has a liking for old things, and this piano is very old, and the music that’s coming from it sounds old as well. But Austria’s hands guiding his clumsy fingers, the music that England’s sure is deviating from the sheet of notes on the piano stand--that’s new.

New is usually bad. But, at this moment of hopeless foolish happiness, England can’t bring himself to be afraid.

* * *

It’s frightening, how fast England becomes attached to Austria. To be sure, it’s been England most of the time who has assisted Austria-- France and Prussia are being irritating again and it’s all England can do to divert one or the other from their barrage against his ally. Still, it means that Austria will have a debt to him, and maybe England enjoys having someone be grateful to him for once-- true, Austria never shows it on purpose, insisting on presenting aristocratic at all times, but England’s well trained in the art of glances and small movements-- he can tell when the other man is stressed, relieved, anxious, glad. And perhaps America also has had something to do with it-- recently, the boy has become downright insufferable to be around, his last few letters vague and preoccupied. The last time England visited, it ended in a loud fight-- America just entering his teenage years, he looks 13 or 14 now and England is alarmed and unready for this sudden change-- and England had done something he’d never even considered before; he had pulled some strings and managed to get himself on a ship back to Britain, two weeks early.

He had received a distressed letter from America and felt a strange mix of sadness and bitter anger. And it was then, too, that Austria proved himself a good ally, listening patiently as England rambled on about America and then sharing a few memories of North Italy, Hungary. _Children are so difficult._ England furiously denies that he is becoming _friends_ with Austria-- what a ridiculous idea, whenever he attempts to befriend someone it’s ended up with either a war or a great loss of money or both-- but it’s true that not all allies would be so considerate. And perhaps it’s this unaccustomed, awkward solidarity from Austria, man to man, that cements the alliance more firmly than all England’s distant military assistance ever could.

* * *

* * *

England is a strange man. Powerful. Austria doesn’t know what to make of him. England is shorter than Austria and has a sort of impeccable grace-- Austria doesn’t know whether it comes from the great weight of money, or whether it is inherent in his personality-- that can be extremely intimidating. Even having seen him upset over his colony America, or half-drunk and improvising on the sitting room piano, Austria can’t help but feel a sort of respect for him. It’s a tainted respect, though, tempered by the fear that England seems to feel is necessary to instill in all of his relationships. Sometimes he feels like England is trying (in his own way) to endear himself to Austria, as a friend, but other times he is distant and cold-- Austria is not sure, again, whether this is manipulation or just the way England is, but either way it leaves him feeling constantly wrong-footed.

It is after the Treaty of Dresden that Austria first realizes that he would like England to be his friend. It is only then that he wonders, seeing England and Prussia talking together animatedly after the treaty has been signed, if England treats his allies the same way as his enemies. Opinions vary among the nations on what is acceptable among allies and what isn’t-- some of them count an ally as a friend, others stick purely to business transactions, some prefer to stay detached and manipulate from behind the scenes. With enemies, it’s simple: destroy them any way you can. With friends, it’s harder. Austria has a sneaking suspicion that England is more the manipulative type than the friendly type.

He never brings the subject up with England-- “ _Oh, and by the way, I was wondering if you would ever want to officially become friends,_ ”-- but he wonders, every time he attends a meeting in London and ends up in England’s mansion talking about some unrelated topic or another over a bottle of fine wine and reluctantly enjoying himself, how England really thinks of him. Sometimes he seems eager to please, lonely, a little too proud to be affectionate but open nevertheless-- and sometimes he seems cold and faraway and cunning and greedy to the extreme. Austria is not stupid enough to fall for the old trick of getting close to someone in order to coax their money out of their pockets-- he’s fallen for it too many times before-- but he can’t afford to push England away, either, not having any other allies to reply upon.

After the Treaty of Dresden, though, he starts watching England closer. It’s 1746 and Austria watches France occupy Brussels, watches England brush it off as nothing and pace about the room, talking about things that don’t seem to involve Austria at all, and suddenly Austria feels very unimportant and frustrated and alone. Spiteful, he mentions something about _You’re still not over France, are you_ and England turns quiet and frightening in the space of a single second.

They fight explosively; it’s not their first disagreement but, Austria thinks belatedly, perhaps it’s the first time England’s felt comfortable enough around Austria to really let himself go. Or maybe it’s just the bad timing of the insult, the implication, _I think you’re the kind of person who would let personal attachments get in the way of politics,_ that England abhors so much. At any rate, Austria finds himself spitting out more aggression as a defense, struggling to maintain his cool as panic wells up in him.

“Don’t deny it, you’re letting him get in the way of our alliance,” he yells, and England draws back, suddenly upset, brushing furiously at his eyes as he leans against the table. It’s a low blow, and Austria knows it and feels sorry at once and wishes he could take it back, but pride pushes the words back down his throat and he swallows heavily.

“I don’t-- I never--” splutters England, and Austria says _“I know, all right,”_ hastily, knowing he’s gone too far, as if they can let this simmer out peacefully, what does it even matter if England is allies with nations other than himself, that’s ridiculous, and--

“If I were to feel _that_ way about anyone--” England spits, turning on his heel viciously, and Austria is suddenly extremely aware of every movement the two of them make in the room, “--it would-- _it wouldn’t be--”_ and then he’s gone as suddenly as he arrived, and Austria can hear him muttering all the way down the hallway.

This moment haunts Austria for far longer than he’d like to admit, even after they’ve made up over some tea and discussed military tactics for a good hour and a half. When he mentions this to Hungary (in a fit of confidentiality or somesuch), she only giggles at him and continues to gather flowers. He twirls a pretty white blossom between his finger and his thumb and watches idly as the petals fly off and whip around in the breeze. _So he loves someone._

* * *

“You’re only in it for your own sake!” yells Austria, and everybody in the room turns to look as England shushes him furiously. A few ladies give them disapproving looks as England grabs his sleeve and drags him into a separate hallway. Austria wrenches his arm from England’s grasp and glares at him, alcohol spinning in his head. He’s stepped over the line, he knows this. Embarrassed, he looks up, refusing to meet England’s gaze.

“What makes you say that?” protests England, and Austria is forced to look back at him.

“Poland,” Austria hisses, “Silesia. You’re supposed to be my ally, you’re supposed-- to take my side, right?” He hates how pathetic he’s coming off as, can’t seem to stop talking even though he knows he’s already said too much. “You benefit from our alliance when it suits you, and then you leave me out in--”

“Enough!” snarls England, looking positively livid. “Do forgive me if I fail to leap to your beck and call for every piffling little thing.” They face off in the hallway, glaring at each other, and Austria can’t help but notice the tense lines in England’s neck, the fury cut into the line of his jaw. It makes him look ugly. He knows that he probably looks just as ugly, twisted by the harsh mechanisms of politics and the rage of the people, does his best to soften his face but can’t decide on what expression he wants to show in this situation.

“You don’t take this alliance seriously,” Austria hisses in a low voice, “only doing things for me when it suits you.” England stares back at him levelly, and Austria wonders what he will say to this. Certainly not a promise to try harder, but maybe some kind of confirmation, a reason for his absence in Silesia--

“Since when has an alliance ever been any different?” spits England, and Austria’s world changes again; he straightens almost involuntarily from the hunched (angry) position he had been standing in, forgets to look angry. England must see his raw shock for a second before he looks away, fighting to regain control of his emotions. _Of course. What an obvious answer._ He doesn’t know why he hadn’t been expecting it, somehow had gotten into the habit of not thinking that way. Looking up again, he sees England staring at him-- looking down on him, even though he’s shorter, an odd expression on his face.

“When did you start expecting anything other than… a political alliance?” he snaps out, quick and upset. Austria gapes at the second blow, struggles for a reply that will negate the impact of what he’s said, but England is already pushing past him and into the brightly lit crowd around the corner.

* * *

_Idiot._ He rests his hands on the keyboard, feeling the cool ivory keys underneath his fingertips, but finds that he lacks the will to play. He stares down at the bars of striking black and white. _Why did I say that?_

__

It’s really the most obvious answer-- now that he thinks about it, everything he’d asked from England was ridiculous, obvious. Of course England will only do what was in his own interest-- that is the way alliances work. It’s Austria who is the naïve one, believing that England would think of him as something special, maybe a friend or at least a special ally, just because England had aided him before-- as if, in the shifting quadrille of European politics, help one day would ever mean anything more than just help for that day. Perhaps England should have helped with the war in Poland, or in Silesia, but of course to call him out for it as a personal slight was -- Austria groans, sends his hands crashing down on the keys in a rare moment of discord. _I am such an idiot._

__

* * *

_I am such an idiot._ England pushes the half-empty glass of liquor around, relishing the harsh, unpleasant noise it makes against the grain of the wood. He is already drunk, although not drunk enough, at least he doesn’t think so if he can still remember Austria’s stricken expression and the way he had stood stiff and unmoving as England had pushed past him. The glass feels cold and welcoming as he chokes back the rest of the liquid in one gulp, wincing as it burns down to his stomach. It makes an oddly distant sound as he sets it clumsily back down on the table, leaning back against his chair and staring aimlessly at the ceiling. _Why did I say that?_

He knows that it was the right thing to say. _If he had a problem with my nonaction in Silesia, he could have said so… instead, calling me out on it personally, that… what does that show?_ It’s a struggle to form a coherent thought. He twists his fingers together, still staring at the gradually darkening ceiling, images of Austria flashing through his head every time he tries to reorganize his memories. _And yet… it was a lie._

The revelation crashes down upon him with much less force than it would have had he not been drunk. Instead, he just blinks a few times, letting the thought settle into his mind. _I really… care about him as more than just a political ally. That’s why it took me so long to call him out on it… I really felt shame there for a second, when he said I didn’t support him in Silesia…?_ And if that’s true, then… _I’ve made a perfect mess of things, haven’t I? Because if I were to become friends with him, I shouldn’t have said… I don’t--_

Everything is confusing. England runs a hand through his hair, lets it drift down his neck and trace his chin. His own fingers feel cold and foreign. _I don’t want friends. And yet Austria-- I don’t want to be friends with him. It’s politics, nothing more._ But he’s hurt Austria’s feelings. _Who cares about his feelings? He needs me. He won’t leave._

__

This thought makes England feel considerably better. _At least he still needs me. He won’t leave yet._

* * *

“I’ve been expecting you!” yells Prussia in such a loud voice that England almost throws up again. He narrows his eyes at the other nation, who just grins at him and smacks him on the arm. England restrains himself with great difficulty from punching his eyes out. “So you heard the news too?”

“Unfortunately,” mutters England, pushing his way past Prussia and into Prussia’s house, which smells like bird poop and cheap alcohol but is at least friendlier on his hangover than the relentless sun outside. “Austria and France. Wasn’t France allied with _you?_ ”

“Yes, yes, but you know how politics are.” Prussia waves it aside with a flap of his hand as he closes the door with a loud slam; England can only assume that he is taking great glee in further provoking the gunshots that are going off inside his head right now, because there is _no good reason_ \-- as he irritably informs the other nation-- to have to close a door _that loudly_. Prussia gives a weird laugh. “Oh, you’re just sore over losing another ally. You really liked Austria, didn’t you?”

England snorts. “He was better than France,” he dismisses, rubbing his eyes in a last-ditch attempt to wake himself up a bit more. _It’s much too early in the morning for this._ “But you’re worse than the both of them, and it seems that I’ll be putting up with you for the next little while, so do at least make the effort to be half-civilized on occasion.” _It’s always too early in the morning for Prussia._

“What do you mean?” chirps Prussia wickedly, grinning at him. “I never said I’d agree to be your ally! So overly proud, England-- it doesn’t suit you.”

“You know perfectly well that we’ll have to ally together in order to keep the balance of power even against France and Austria,” England grits out, glaring at him. “Don’t make this any more difficult than it has to be.”

Prussia breaks out some maps and they begin planning, but the session quickly degenerates into Prussia’s rambling away about Silesia while England nods and pretends to listen. He’s thinking about Austria-- how Austria knew how to conduct a proper conversation, and how Austria was always cautious and who always listened to England’s input, how Austria had left him to ally with France for no reason at all-- or at least no reason that England could fathom. Was it the fight they had had? It’s true that England has been busy squabbling with France for the last few months, hasn’t had as much leisure time as usual, but he can’t recall ever cutting his time with Austria short. And surely England would have been a better choice than France to help Austria defend Bohemia? Didn’t Austria hate France almost as much as England did?

“You’re not even listening to a word I say, so let’s break for lunch,” sighs Prussia, and England looks up for the first time. Prussia is staring fixedly at him, a small smile on his pale lips. England stares back quizzically, half-wondering if Prussia is going to quiz him on what he’s been rambling on about, not really caring either way.

“You’re really taking this one hard, aren’t you?” says Prussia in a surprisingly sympathetic tone. England blinks back owlishly, unable to connect the words together in his mind. Prussia shakes his head, mutters something under his breath.

“Get over it soon,” he advises, standing up and picking his way around England. “We have a war to win.”

“Who said anything about war?” asks England, startled out of his confusion. “Aren’t we trying to prevent war?”

Prussia just smirks and slips out of the room, leaving England amidst a pile of maps and questions.

* * *

In the end, he can’t prevent the war. Prussia is much pushier than Austria-- England had forgotten what it was like, working with someone who didn’t know how England liked his tea, who didn’t even attempt to hide it when he advanced his own ideals. It’s a major European war, and England -- well, he’s not exactly fighting against Austria, but he is in the war and Austria is on the wrong side of it and England makes sure to always plot a course around him, doesn’t open any letters from his government. He isn’t sure why. He just knows that he doesn’t want to see Austria again.

The funny thing is that he’s not even angry at Austria. Even now, when Austria has abandoned him for their shared enemy France with no warning, no reason given, he can’t bring himself to feel angry at the man-- just sad and confused, still, and afraid of finding out the answers. So the one day he meets Austria on the battlefield, just barely seeing that flash of surprised pale face and dark hair out of the corner of his eye, he immediately backs off and lets one of Prussia’s armies take his place.

The alliance is definitely over, even without a formal ending to it. Which is why it’s all the more humiliating when America declares independence and France sides with the boy out of pure damned spite for England and Spain, the coward, won’t really pick a side and England finds himself on Austria’s doorstep.

Because the war is not going the way it should, there’s no way that America’s ragtag farmer army could beat the British and Prussian troops that England knows are more capable by far-- even aided by France, it shouldn’t be possible that England could be losing this severely. Maybe he’s underestimated America, or maybe this is just a fluke and soon things will go back to the way they should be-- but either way England is panicking and after a few drinks it seems more than obvious that of course America is more important than his pride. If Austria enters the war, at least France will be distracted-- damn him to hell, this is a fight between America and England, it’s none of France’s business (or Prussia’s, either, but he forces himself not to consider this part) and--

He is not prepared for Austria’s smooth rejection. It does not seem, as Austria looks down on him with cold disdain, that there could ever have been anything resembling a friendship between them. England has a cold, impersonal moment then, feeling like nothing that has happened to him has happened to him, and it frightens him.

He loses the war, but it seems (later, in dry clothes on the ship that’s tossing and turning restlessly on the way back to England) that really, he lost America a long time ago. He lost America the first time America pushed him away and he crashed into the wall because that was the first time America stopped holding back his strength around England, he lost Alfred when they stopped caring about each other and all he’s lost with the signing of the official documents is the land that they call now the United States of America. That, and his pride. France will gloat, and Prussia will shrug and turn away to his own business again, and England will slink back to his home and nurture the new grudges born from this war.

He does not think of Austria’s rejection, does not think that perhaps if their alliance had lasted that Austria would have assisted him. Already the reality of America’s nationhood is sinking into the fabric of the world; it no longer seems like something that could have been preventable. But he does resent the fact that, after the fact of the war, Austria is not there for him to turn to.

There is a part of him that is cheering America on. That is why it hurts so much.

* * *

Everything hurts. The war is over and everything hurts.

_Where’s Germany?_ Austria doesn’t even know where he himself is. _The war is over and the Allies won._ There’s a kind of weird horror in imagining England, battered by the constant bombs of World War Two-- _they’re calling it World War Two_ \-- how would that affect a nation’s personification? Maybe it would be like sores for every bomb. Maybe little cuts, or bruises, or burns with no fire around-- it’s driving him crazy to think about it. _England. He was such an arrogant man when we were allies._ Austria hasn’t seen him since the beginning of the war. _What does he look like now?_

__

He blinks and then England is there and Austria’s not quite sure if this is a hallucination or not-- but it has to be a hallucination, there’s no way England could be here, unless-- _oh, the war’s over-_ \- England stands above him, looking down, but there’s no pride in his expression, only exhaustion and broken relief hidden behind a mask of businesslike authority. He looks different and yet the same. Muzzled by pain, Austria can’t control the thoughts running through his head; _he looks older, his expression is so cold, he moves stiffly, that means bandages_ \-- every nation knows the tells of pain, and England carries almost all of them. _But his eyes are the same._ Green and unhappy. He probably doesn’t recognize me. Austria flicks over England’s face, searching for some sign of _I know you, I remember you_ , except he knows that in such a small space of time, how could he possibly have been important enough to England to merit a spot in his memory?

It’s been the biggest war of all time, arguably, and with every war of this magnitude comes change. This means a change in the world, the balance of the world, and so far it’s unclear as to how that’s going to work at all-- what’s the future? And Austria tries to read the future in England’s eyes, but he keeps coming up empty and full of old memories he hasn’t thought of in so long--

_Of course he doesn’t remember me. Does he remember me?_

And it’s at that moment, the moment when Austria fixes England clearly in his mind as a stranger, that England moves. Austria instinctively cringes away, but England is not moving to strike a blow-- he’s turning on his heel, sharply and decisively, and all of a sudden he has moved out of Austria’s line of vision and Austria can hear his dull footsteps against the ground as he calls out, something rapid, and then an unfamiliar voice that Austria can match vaguely to America in his memory. His mind is full of England-- England looking down, turning, walking away-- _why did he walk away?_ \-- and then-- _does he remember me?--_

\--he knows.

An unexpected wave of relief washes over him, sudden and profound, and he flicks his eyes sideways in mute surprise as somebody lifts him up with apparent ease. This must be America, and Austria can see why England loved him so in those blue eyes-- that blue seems like something that England would care for-- and he thinks he understands, a little, a few things suddenly become clear to him, like why they say America is the future (and how a misunderstanding in the 18th century could go unresolved for two hundred years; but also why that misunderstanding could not matter in the face of such a blinding, all-encompassing future) and why Germany lost the war, and why it’s so important to Austria --personally-- that London didn’t fall as promised. That the world will keep on turning.

The sun is suddenly all around them, flashing off of America’s glasses so that Austria can’t see his eyes (the future) anymore.

**  
**

**Author's Note:**

> Sources: Wikipedia article on the Anglo-Austrian Alliance. The "quadrille" refers to a European partner dance in which the partners are constantly swapping places. This led to European politics in that time period becoming known as the "stately quadrille" for obvious reasons :p
> 
> so yEAH THAT WAS MY ATTEMPT ;;w; I hope it's not too historically inaccurate rhhgh I wanted to include much more detail about the politics of the time and their relationship but I ran out of time xD 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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